Reckless, Glorious, Girl Read online

straight through.

  Voted most beautiful

  small town

  in Kentucky.

  & I for one

  believe

  every

  word.

  What Other People See vs. What I See

  To other people,

  Kentucky

  = country

  = hillbilly

  = backwoods

  = uneducated

  = misunderstood

  But to me,

  Kentucky

  = home

  = family

  = a garden in bloom

  = everyone who matters

  = my whole life story

  They see empty roads

  where I see rolling hills.

  They see small towns

  where I see everyone I know

  & who knows me too.

  They see small minds

  where I see big ol’ hearts

  & brilliance.

  On the news, I hear “poverty”

  & “underprivileged.” But in my home,

  I see a table full of fresh food

  from our garden & beds made

  with quilts from my great-

  great-granny’s two hands.

  To me, a Kentucky sky is full

  of stars & shine. Smells of woods

  & fresh earth. Thankful

  the people who’ve raised me up

  have taught me to love

  where I’m from.

  Countryfolk

  Mamaw says people all the time

  underestimate the South. Think

  we’re rowdy, unruly & messy,

  backward, dirty & unkempt.

  Think we don’t know nothing.

  Imagine us barefoot, dirt roads,

  stupid, uneducated, the opposite

  of sophisticated. Can’t invite us

  anywhere.

  She laughs in downward dog.

  Her long silver strands trailing behind.

  Mixes her homemade kombucha

  & cracks the spine of her newest

  cookbook. Open to sourdough bread

  braided in twisted wheat goodness.

  “I might be country, but I’m worldly

  too,” she says, pointing at our map

  rising up like a wave behind her.

  “Even if I haven’t traveled the globe,

  I’ve been there in my books & newspapers

  and stories and tall tales. Tell it. I’ve known

  this whole wide world better than most.

  And I sure know not to poke fun at someone

  for the way they drawl. Where they lay

  their head. Or the soil they plant their dreams in.”

  Not to Brag

  Mamaw says, “But our garden

  is easily the biggest on the block.”

  Chock-full of beans, beets,

  & bok choy. Cabbage, carrots,

  corn reaching up to the clouds.

  Cucumber & dill. Summer

  squash & swiss chard. Sage,

  hot peppers & potatoes.

  Arugula we dress homemade

  olive oil with lemon & salt.

  The sweetest of all sweet

  potatoes. Tomatoes, turnips

  & thyme. Okra, onion, enough

  for dashes of oregano. Meals

  are made hearty here. Sprout-

  ing wide, weathering & water-

  ing. The two of us with the green-

  est of thumbs. Watch it all grow.

  Getting Old Is Hell

  Mamaw says & giggles into her gloves—

  full of dirt & holding one earthworm

  slimy & still alive in her fingers.

  “Creaky bones and all.

  You gotta hold on to something,

  anything to even get on up.

  Your knees give,

  your hips ache.

  Your body sinks.

  I used to be five foot seven, you know?”

  She’s been lying about that forever.

  & everyone knows she’s never ever

  been taller than five foot four.

  “And don’t get me started on how hard it is

  to keep my mind fresh. Woooo, cobwebs

  for days up there. Can’t remember one

  little thing.”

  She goes back to digging,

  shaking her head just a little.

  Jogging memory.

  “I wish I was older,” I say.

  She pops her good hip out & tilts her head.

  “Oh, sweet Beatrice. You have plenty of time.”

  “But I want it now,” I say—careful not to whine.

  “Wanna be adult now and grown

  and know it all.”

  At this she really starts in,

  guffawing & choking on her laughter.

  “You think I know it all? Just ’cause you get older

  doesn’t mean you get smarter. Just means

  you ask more questions.” I sigh.

  Study the day, Mamaw’s small body

  curled toward me.

  I have so many questions myself,

  it feels like I’ll never know any of the answers.

  “I guess I just wish I could predict the future.

  See if it’s all gonna work out for me.

  In the end, you know?”

  & as soon as I say it, I see Mamaw’s old hurt.

  My dad’s passing away too soon.

  & I see how she imagined a future

  that never even made it home that night.

  & we both hold each other a little longer.

  Somehow find a way to be satisfied with today

  knowing no tomorrow is ever promised.

  Growing

  Mamaw says this is the season,

  for germinating & burgeoning.

  Big words I have to look up

  in the dictionary. Because

  we are also the only family

  on the block who still owns one.

  & our ancient, olden-times

  computer takes eons

  to come alive. “Books last

  longer. They’re better,” Mamaw

  says. I go on & sigh a long one.

  Look them up just the same.

  Germinate & Burgeon

  To germinate is to shoot forth

  straight up from the ground.

  Rise into existence. Exist. Begin.

  Develop from seed or spore.

  From bulb to plant. From kid

  to girl to young woman. Develop.

  To burgeon is to bud. Quick

  with flourish. Sprout & arrive.

  Too bad I don’t feel like either

  of those words. Still growing.

  Still trying to figure out how to

  take up space & show off.

  Instead, I’m still somewhere

  underground. Beneath it all.

  Watching everyone else push up

  & grow. Rising high all around me.

  How I’d love to be: Beatrice Miller,

  queen of the amplify. Expansion even.

  Tell Mamaw to watch out for me

  & my reckless blossoming.

  Night Shift

  Mom works from seven p.m. to five a.m.

  at Flaget Memorial

  & says nursing’s the best thing

  that ever happened to her.

  Acute care & attention, constant contact

  & emotional support staff.

  Her routine is a roaming rotation

  of temperatures, blood work,

  maintaining peace & ease.

  She supplies what you need

  to recover & mend.

  Lisa Miller: the human comforter,

  maven of meditation & healing.

  Mom makes magic out of medicine.

  & even though it seems like the whole town

  survives & thrives with her help & heart,

  sometimes in the middle of the night,

>   I wish she were using her skills

  to make my restlessness go calm.

  What I Need from You

  Is what my mom has been saying all summer.

  “Beatrice Miller,

  what I need from you

  is your focus and attention.

  Your mamaw is getting older

  and wilder and messier

  and just all over the place.”

  “This is what I need from you:

  laundry washed, folded, and put away

  dishwasher loaded and running

  counters wiped down

  trash taken out

  beds made

  floors cleared

  art supplies put away

  dolls and books stored up

  your desk organized

  your closet organized

  your bathroom organized

  everything organized

  you get the idea

  right?”

  Sometimes my mom

  gets in monologue mode

  & talks & talks & lectures

  & gives rambling speeches

  about our home & the state

  of our living situation

  & the world. & her voice

  is a monotonous ringing

  that lasts forever.

  What I want to say is:

  “I get it! Enough!

  Stop talking! It’s your house!

  You clean!”

  But what I say is:

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do better.

  I’ll help out around the house

  and make sure Mamaw is okay.

  I promise.”

  Part Mamaw & Part Mom

  Is the way I’ve always been.

  Like Mom, I can hide away

  from the world with a book

  or journal. Get quiet as can be.

  But like Mamaw, I can fire up,

  get to dancing & singing,

  flinging my emotions around.

  I go from solo to crowd

  easy as can be. From calm

  to rowdy. From low to high.

  The great copycat. Play it up

  or down. Depending on who

  I’m with, what’s expected of me.

  From still to nonstop. Sometimes

  I’m so busy trying to mimic them

  that I forget to just be me.

  Summer Still

  & we ride our bikes for hours.

  Bright orange for me. Purple dream

  for StaceyAnn & fiery red for Mariella.

  We all bought them at the same time. Saved

  up from two months of babysitting. Jackpot

  as we coast to Rincón Mexicano, the best

  spot in town since Mariella’s folks

  opened it three years ago. Her mom

  waves us in for chips & guacamole. We tell

  the tallest tales when we’re together. Laugh

  with our mouths wide open. StaceyAnn says this year,

  we’ll rule the school. Even that doesn’t sound

  cool. But we agree. Dunk more chips, drink—

  rounds of Sprite arrive. It’s still summer,

  still warm enough to imagine she’s right.

  Wanna Catch Crawdads?

  Mariella asks. She’s leaned on her bicycle,

  the sun a fat glow on her face.

  “We could work on our tree house too?

  We still got a little more to do

  to make it our perfect secret hideout.

  & look, I got my abuelo’s tool belt.”

  Perfection.

  & I barely get my goodbye out, running

  full speed to race alongside her bike.

  StaceyAnn meets us at the corner, her arms

  loaded up with chocolate chip cookies

  & Ale-8-1 Limited Edition Orange Cream.

  “Yes!” we all shout, tumbling over one another

  toward the creek bed. Only takes ten minutes

  to ride outta the neighborhood & straight

  to our hidden spot—where we can just be

  quiet & unknown to all the adults in our lives.

  It’s the place I love best, away from it all.

  Cutoff jean shorts & raggedy T-shirts:

  we’re wearing the perfect summer uniforms.

  Flip-flops, feet free & an old upside-down sled

  to keep the critters in while we study ’em.

  Been spending end-of-August days like this.

  Pounding nails & boards to the side

  of our favorite tree, just far enough away

  so no one can bother us, no one can interrupt.

  We’ve hammered in bookshelves & made room

  for all the things we collect along the way.

  A hammock high above the bluegrass to sit

  & watch the day.

  “Tastes just like a Dreamsicle,” StaceyAnn says,

  popping the tops & handing out a round.

  “Small batch, seasonal flavor,” she reads.

  To me it tastes just like summer.

  & sugar, of course. All the sweetest things

  about hoping something lasts forever.

  Tree House Where I Hold My Dreams

  Long after Mariella & StaceyAnn ride away,

  I find myself getting comfortable. Relaxing.

  Pull my diary & pen out, start to swing

  in our perfectly positioned hammock

  that stretches between two tree limbs

  & lean my head all the way back.

  Try to hold on to this feeling.

  “Anything you make

  with your own two hands

  is worth it,” Mamaw is always saying.

  This afternoon, I think she’s right

  as I take in our work. The fabric

  we’ve wrapped & draped,

  the trinkets we’ve placed

  in secret parts of our tree.

  Small crystals, old dolls & toys,

  parts of our lives we don’t play with anymore

  but don’t want to forget either.

  This space, all our own.

  StaceyAnn nailed in an old mirror

  to create a kaleidoscope with the sun.

  I look right into it—see my reflection

  & all the parts that make me who I am

  or who I am supposed to be.

  Worthy & whole

  trust all the parts

  put it all together.

  Want to make myself shining

  and worth it

  too.

  City Pool

  StaceyAnn can do the best backstroke

  while Mariella can somersault twice

  atop the high dive. I’m awesome

  at inhaling loads of nachos with extra

  cheese & floating into the abyss. Oblivion.

  Beneath all that chlorine, I’m part

  mermaid—all flowing & beautiful, part

  still me. The parts I still like. Strong

  arms & legs. My feet for pushing through.

  Underwater, I’m sea creature & girl still

  imaginary & real at the same time.

  Swim Team Girls

  Besides showing off & eating until we’re silly,

  the three of us + Zoey Samuels

  (who is eleven but acts seventeen)

  make up the Bardstown Barracudas relay team

  representing the best public pool in the whole county.

  Practice happens three days a week

  & we hustle into the cool pool

  swimming lap after lap.

  Whistle blows

  Dive

  Freestyle

  Submerge

  Practice

  Race

  Paddle

  Butterfly

  Free

  Back

  Whistle blows

  Rest

  Float

  Glide

  Wade

  Dip

  Crawl

  Slide<
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  Wash

  Drift

  Our final meet of the summer is coming up.

  Coach Crane tells us to sleep hard, hydrate

  & eat full meals to keep ourselves afloat.

  I’ve Been Thinking

  about what “staying afloat”

  really means. Above water. With all your breath.

  Wondering how to stay unsinkable when school starts.

  Not be taken down by feeling left out,

  not pretty or smart or grown or mature enough.

  Pulled between wanting to stay a kid

  but ready to be a teenager. Looking in the mirror

  & loving what I’m seeing. Being as fast & strong

  & smart as my mom & mamaw say I am.

  Believing it myself.

  How to be weightless when everything feels so heavy.

  Race Day

  We stretch our arms to the sky,

  run in place. Jumping jacks.

  Mariella kickboards across the pool.

  StaceyAnn plunges below sound.

  We’re up against our biggest rivals:

  Washington County Wave Runners.

  Even their name makes zero sense.

  A wave runner is a vehicle—a watercraft.

  It’s not a fish. It’s motorized. Fake fast.

  Besides they’re from some fancy

  country club that none of us

  care a lick about. We gotta beat ’em.

  Meanwhile, a barracuda is fearsome

  & ferocious. We read all about it.

  Designed shirts & hats. Large

  & predatory. That’s what we are.

  What I’m thinking is:

  Can’t touch us.

  Lightning below water.